*”How handsome he’s grown. If only he were a bit wealthier, worked for a prestigious firm—I might have fallen for him,”* thought Eleanor.
*”Now, George, you’re in charge while I’m away. If anything comes up, ring me. I’m not off to the moon—I’ll be reachable,”* said Edward, extending a hand to his deputy and friend.
*”Understood, don’t fret. By the way, you never did say where you’re off to. The Cotswolds or Cornwall?”* George clasped the offered hand.
*”Didn’t I mention? Going to Mum’s. The roof needs mending, the fence repairing. Father used to tend the house, but since he passed, one thing after another falls apart. Can’t recall the last time I sat by the river with a fishing rod.”*
*”I’ve never even been fishing. A proper city lad, me. Almost envy you,”* George sighed. *”Tell me all when you’re back,”* he called after Edward as he left.
Glad he’d soon be far from the grime and clamour of London, breathing the crisp air of his childhood, Edward rode the train home with a quiet smile.
He’d grown up in a small village. His mother taught at the local school; his father was a builder. Young Ned often helped on sites, learning the trade. His father hoped he’d follow in his footsteps, but Ned was drawn to engines, computers, the hum of new technology. School came easily. When he finished, he declared there was nothing for him in the village—he’d go to London, make something of himself beyond hammers and nails.
*”Nothing for you here? The village is growing. Builders will always be needed. You’ll never go hungry. Fancy a modern house? Marry, have children with room to run,”* his father argued.
*”Too soon to think of wives. Need to stand on my own feet first,”* Ned dismissed.
His father fumed, but his mother soothed. *”Don’t clip his wings. Let him try. He’s clever—we’ll be proud yet.”*
They gave him what little they could spare, and off he went to conquer the capital. Ned studied at university and laboured on sites. In time, he achieved all he’d dreamed.
At school, he’d fancied Eleanor, a freckled, giggling girl. She wasn’t bookish—dreamed of a salon, scissors in hand. Each had their own path, and they parted without promises.
Whenever Ned visited home, Eleanor was already gone. He might’ve asked her mother for her number, but he never did. Love would only distract him. Marriage, children—he’d be grinding for bread, not chasing dreams. No, first he’d build his fortune, buy a fine house, a proper car. Then, perhaps…
*”Mind you don’t wait too long. Eleanor mightn’t wait forever,”* his father warned.
*”No matter. Plenty of other girls,”* Ned replied.
But none measured up.
Now Edward had all he’d wanted—or nearly. A fine house in Kensington, a sleek motor, a thriving business. Time, at last, to think of a wife. Women came easily, but they wanted his wealth, his status. He longed to be loved for himself.
On visits home, he secretly hoped to spot Eleanor. To his parents, he said little of his success. They lived modestly, scorned extravagance. When he hinted at his achievements, his father scowled, his mother flinched. *How could a honest man afford a London flat, a country house?*
*”Bending the law, are you? Is this what we taught you? Better a humble builder than a shame to your family,”* his father grumbled.
So Edward visited in borrowed, battered cars, swapped his Jaguar for a mate’s modest runabout. Claimed he worked as an engineer. His father nodded, proud of his London lad.
This trip was no different, though his father had been gone three years. He left the Jag behind, took the train, dressed plainly.
His lower bunk he gave up to an elderly woman, who thanked him tirelessly. From the upper berth, he watched fields and rivers blur past, remembering his first journey to London years ago. The rhythmic clack of wheels eased his thoughts.
The village seemed smaller now, impossibly green. Air sweet with earth and leaves, not petrol and dust. Flowers spilled over garden fences.
His mother gasped when he walked in, eyes wet. *”Ned! I wasn’t expecting you. How long will you stay?”*
*”Till you toss me out,”* he said, hugging her.
She baked every day, fussing over her only son. He ate her pies, then patched the roof, mended the fence, painted the shutters.
*”You’re meant to be on holiday, not working,”* she fretted.
*”Done now. Where are you off to?”* He nodded at her good dress, the woven basket in hand.
*”Just the shops.”*
*”I’ll bike it. What do you need?”*
She listed groceries, then balked. *”You’re going like *that*?”*
*”What’s wrong?”* He thought his faded jeans, rolled sleeves, and tan sturdy enough. The trainers—ah, well. Expensive, but comfortable. Likely no one here would know the difference.
At the shop, women eyed him, asked whose boy he was. They marvelled when he gave his name, pried about his life. He gave scant replies.
Outside, his rusty bicycle leaned beside a gleaming red Mini. The contrast was laughable. He whistled, noting the Mini’s flat tyre.
*”You might help instead of gawping,”* came a voice behind him.
Goosebumps rose. A face may change, but a voice—never. Something Dickens might’ve written.
He turned, scarcely recognising the elegant woman as Eleanor. Knee-length dress, sleek bob, gold sandals. His face warmed.
*”Ned?!”*
*”You’ve changed. That yours?”* He jerked his chin at the Mini. *”Lovely.”*
She flushed, pleased. *”Yes, but the roads here are wretched. Ruined the tyre.”*
*”Spare? Tools?”*
As he worked, he felt her gaze on his hands, his shoulders. He fought the urge to glance up.
*”There. Tyre’s in the boot—can be patched.”*
*”Thank you. Let me drive you home.”*
*”No need. Won’t dirty your seats.”* He brushed dust from his jeans.
She drove off, but further down the lane, the Mini waited. The window rolled down as he approached.
*”We’ve years to catch up on. Let me thank you properly—join me for tea?”* Her eyes held hope.
*”I don’t want to part either,”* he thought.
*”It’s been ages—no idea where’s decent. Give me the address. I’ll drop these at home and come.”*
*”Off already?”* His mother eyed the grocery bag he’d set down.
*”Ran into an old friend. Pub, probably.”* He dodged her knowing look.
She watched him go. *”That ‘friend’—Eleanor, I’ll wager.”*
The tea room was quiet. Eleanor sat at the counter. They moved to a table, ordered—black coffee, no sugar, a scone for her. He mirrored it.
*”Here on holiday? How’s your mum? Mine’s poorly,”* she said.
*”Holding up. Your salon’s done well—you look stunning.”* He noted her bare ring finger. *”Not married?”*
She tucked her hands away. *”Didn’t work out. You?”*
*”Same.”*
By the end, they’d shared much. Her salon catered to celebrities, society wives. *”Always new treatments to learn. No rest in business. Barely time to visit Mum.”*
*”I’m a builder, like Dad,”* he found himself saying.
Watching her, he missed the girl she’d been—freckled, grinning. *”Nose straightened—surgery? Lovely, but not for me.”*
*”So handsome. If he’d more money, a proper job… I might’ve loved him,”* Eleanor thought, sipping scalding coffee.
Conversation lulled.
*”Best be off. Maybe we’ll meet again?”* he said.
*”Need a lift?”*
*”I’ll walk.”*
Outside, she smiled, waved, drove away.
Days later, on the train back, Edward gazed at the passing world, remembering Eleanor—his first love, his might-have-been.
Meanwhile, in her salon, Eleanor dyed a client’s hair.
*”How was your trip?”* her assistant asked.
*”Fine. Keys are in your jacket. Ta.”*
*”Make an impression?”*
*”Oh*”And so they drifted, two ships passing in the night, each too proud to lower their sails and meet in honest waters.”*
